Vince Staples is a preternaturally gifted rapper who’s been making major waves since his chilling breakout verse on Earl Sweatshirt’s “Hive” in 2013. Playing foil to Earl’s poetic introspection, Staples hit the song with cold, detached observation and threats that felt sociopathic rather than stunted. The schism between Staples and Earl, as evidenced on that song, isn’t too different from the one between Staples and the rap world at large. While much of rap is now heavily influenced by trap, as well as by absurd juxtaposition and alliterative runs pioneered by Ghostface Killah and Cam’ron, Staples occupies a unique space that diminishes affectation for clarity of delivery.
That clarity is also evident in the clean conceptual territory his last two releases have followed — his debut album Summertime ’06 is a bildungsroman about losing his sense of youth, and last year’s Prima Donna EP, inspired by Amy Winehouse, meditates on a rapper who becomes successful and then commits suicide. While his music may at first seem workmanlike, Staples’s attention to detail and big-tent thinking reveal it to be not only ambitious but also experimental, unafraid to push lyrical and sonic buttons that actively challenge the listener.
Staples’s latest, The Big Fish Theory, feels like something a blend of his previous two releases: it’s the rumination of a young, successful rapper amid the maelstrom of fame. The album is relatively short, running only 36 minutes across 12 tracks. The brevity is evidenced in Staples’s verses, which themselves number only about two per song. At times, Staples runs through familiar lyrical territory — emotional disconnection from a lover or boasts about his lyrical prowess and achievements — but he enriches them with an urgent delivery that imbues each song with austerity and intensity.
There is little light to this album — the hedonistic impulses imply emptiness while the self-aggrandising statements are put alongside pained observations of the greater racial conflicts in American culture. This juxtaposition is eyed throughout the record with lyrics like, “How am I supposed to have a good time when death and destruction is all that I see?” or others that make reference to “fighting the white man every day”, black men being crucified or being handcuffed with their skin turning blue. One can feel the exhaustion within Staples’s point of view: his lyrics are not a mere observation of his life, but a fight for agency in a country that will judge him by the color of his skin versus any talent or achievement he might reach.
Staples clearly understands himself to be special, going so far as to refer to himself as a genius on “Homage”, but also recognises the fragility of this position, citing the actor River Phoenix, another precocious talent who died too young. His clear interest in “taken too soon” talents like Winehouse and Phoenix take on a new poignancy when put alongside the grander observations of racial violence.
The Big Fish Theory underscores the politics of Staples’s lyrics through its sound. Actively engaging with both Detroit techno and house music, the album restores the politics naturally embedded in the music by the artists who originally made it. Before being co-opted into the mainstream, techno and house music both reflected the industrialised urban centres where the artists making the music lived, while also providing an inclusive bastion for people of different cultural backgrounds, races, and sexualities. The Big Fish Theory feels like a modern iteration of these genres in practice, rather than the Xeroxed impression you might get from listening to a Disclosure record. The bass throughout is both melodic and punishing, often featured very high in the mix, so it runs in conflict to Staples’s vocals rather than serving them.
This is a body-oriented record, splitting the difference between chest-rattling pressure and hardcore, but danceable tracks. The abrasion here is tempered by colourful production from a litany of producers (including Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon and SOPHIE) as well as by frequent vocal contributions from Kilo Kish, whose lithe vocals add a sweet counterpart to Staples’s reedy voice. This is club music for a fractured and troubled time, outdoing the Staples-assisted Gorillaz Humanz record at its own game. (Funnily enough, Damon Albarn drops in to coo the opening chorus to “Love Can Be…”)
The Big Fish Theory is a powerful and troubling record. It’s an epic in miniature that shows a natural progression from Staples’s previous work. Fitfully angered and alive, it offers no solution other than to simply commune with its sound. It’s decidedly imperfect, mirroring the discomfort at the centre of its maker’s mind.